


Lions Among Lambs

by periodicallypyrrhic88



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age 2
Genre: Addicition, Canon Divergence, Dragon Age 2 - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, Sub Cullen, This is gonna get dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-29 21:59:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18302708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/periodicallypyrrhic88/pseuds/periodicallypyrrhic88
Summary: Cullen x Samson - Cullen has just arrived in Kirkwall to take his place in the Gallows. He has no idea that this will ultimately throw him in the path of two men; one who he trusts almost from the start and the other he becomes conditioned to obey, unquestioningly.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a wildly self-indulgent fic I stayed up all night writing. It's my first for the Dragon Age fandom and one of my favorite pairings of all, Cullen/Samson. This first chapter is basically laying the foundation of what is to come but multiple chapters are to follow and its going to get d a r k so beware?? I've fallen for this ship super fast and hard and wanted to tweak their story just a bit for MAXIMUM ANGST. I hope you all like it!

He thought of hands that held, that comforted, soft and tender and gentle in their nature; at least with him, at least most of the time. Always in the dead of night when the demons wrapped their razor sharp claws around his throat, when they began to slice through his flesh in an attempt to scar his soul. He welcomed that familiar pair of hands then, always melting into them as though he were a flame, simply burning alive.

He thought of those hands now as he laid eyes upon the set that hurt, hands that, if they cared to boast any ounce of honesty, would shine red with blood constantly, as if they were stained. Cullen supposed they were, just more times than not they had already been scrubbed clean with coarse soap and dipped into a mixture of herb water to mask the stench.

The man donning those hands now sat before Cullen, steepling them together carefully and gazing upon him with a fixed, intense glare that made the young man wish he was anywhere but in his presence.

“Cullen.”

The templar in question was immediately grateful for his body’s automatic instinct to swallow down the bile that had gathered in his throat, instead reflexively tightening the muscle in his jaw, straightening his back in his seat just so and lifting his chin slightly. Even in the moments Cullen wanted to hide the most, to simply disappear, his body would not allow him to appear weak.

Especially not when in the presence of the Knight-Commander.

Knight-Commander Malachi was popularly known for two things, prominently; his utter distrust of anyone capable of magic and his temper, respectively. The temper alone was enough of a force to be reckoned with on any given regular day, with the man’s anger always seeming to teem and writhe just underneath the surface of his armor, as if it was a living force in of itself. Much more intimidating was he when actually given a cause to be angry, and the dam broke completely.

And Cullen knew he was angry.

\---

“This is taking much too long,” the Knight-Commander barked suddenly, taking several long strides forwards through the path the templars immediately provided for him, as if the man grazing them would cause them to burn. The man planted himself beside Cullen, whose gaze was transfixed on the form of the young woman in front of him, who was currently completely lost in the whatever lies in the realm beyond the physical.

“The time alludes to her struggle of will. No proper Circle mage need this much time to prove they will not succumb to the promises of a demon. I order this harrowing failed. Cullen—“

Before the Knight-Commander could continue, the sound of two great oaken doors scratching the stone floor was heard as they were pushed open with wild abandon, accompanied by a shocked, indignant cry. The top of an ornate staff could be seen above the templar’s helms as the shuffling of panicked feet on stone becoming closer and closer until Grand Enchanter Orsino became visible through the templars, having to push his way through the throng of armor-clad men and women, all of whom had barely budged for the elven mage.

“What is the meaning of this?!” The mage spat in a disbelieving rage, venom lacing in between his words. His knuckles grew white where they were wrapped around the middle of his staff, as if the piece of wood was all that kept him tethered to the horrific scene unfolding right in front of his eyes. They were opened wide and wild, granting him an almost alien look compared to the humans in the room. “I am supposed to decide when a mage is ready to undergo their Harrowing… yet I gave you no word, yet I received no invitation?! You’ve barely even given this girl time enough to navigate the Fade—you’ve no idea how vast, how expansive… I did not even agree to administering the test to her, she’s been here for far too short a time—“

“Cullen.”

The name had come out calm, resolute, and left absolutely no room for misinterpretation. It also managed to permeate the dissociation Cullen had managed to slip in as he watched the mage undergoing her Harrowing, who still stood in one spot, eyes open wide and as white as the sun on a winter’s day. They were darting about relentlessly, almost frantically, although just what she was beholding was a mystery to all of the humans occupying the room. She was clutching, white-knuckled, at fistfuls of her robes she had gathered in her hands unknowingly. She was also trembling all over, from head to toe, her soul too far beyond to realize it. 

She had been taken, completely unawares, almost an hour prior by Cullen himself, as he was to escort her the many flights to the top of the tower, to the Chambers where a mage either went to prove themselves or die horribly. They had almost made it in complete silence too, something Cullen had been grateful for, before she had chosen to speak.

“Ser.” The voice had been tiny, and terrified, and had caught Cullen off-guard. If he had been any more focused on putting one foot in front of the other, of his grip on his torch, or the sound of his own breathing as he forced it steady, he may have missed it completely. He glanced down at her then, the bright torchlight illuminating her features and bringing her face to life for the first time that Cullen had seen.

Cullen flinched.

She was young—very young. Perhaps not even much older than he had been when he had shipped out to begin his training with the Order. He couldn’t be sure how long she had occupied the tower, but he knew it predated his own arrival, although he couldn’t imagine it had been for much longer. Still, he steeled himself, setting his jaw as he pushed on down the corridor they walked through, making it clear that words would fail to serve as any sort of delay for what was to come.

The girl floundered, but hesitated for only a moment before scrambling u to him, but this time, to perhaps both of their surprise, she reached out and grabbed his armored wrist.

Cullen recoiled as if burned, his hand immediately flying to the hilt of his sword. The girl released her grasp on his wrist with desperate urgency and instead flung them in front of herself in surrender. “No, please, Ser! I do not mean to delay my Harrowing, it is just…” She dropped her head, and when she lifted it again to catch Cullen’s eye, her own held the look of an animal caged and cornered, of a prisoner awaiting their execution. Of total hopelessness. “I know I am not ready—I’ve only just been here not even six months, I—I know it also doesn’t matter. It is not my own fate I protest, but…” she trailed off then, before suddenly digging into a pouch of her leather belt with lightning speed, perhaps before the templar before here could think ill of her intentions. In her hand she presented a ring, and Cullen instinctively tensed before realizing that a ring was all it was. He sensed no magic about the thing, and it boasted no magical attributes, lacking a stone or any sort of decoration at all.

“You can tell there’s no magic, right? No enchantments. Its just gold,” the girl fumbled, a nervous sweat having broke out about her hairline as she stammered through her words. “Its useless, but its worth coin, is it not?” Cullen simply stared down at the human girl, unblinking and unmoving.

“If this is some sort of bribe, I swear by the Maker—“

“No!” The girl cried in a hushed, but panicked whisper, shaking her head vehemently. “I know I’m not like to survive. I have a brother, you see—I was all he had, I w-worry about him… I’ve a letter here, too, with an address, if I fail my Harrowing, you must—“

She had begun to delve into her robes for a second time and it was then that anger began to tic beneath Cullen’s exterior. He suddenly reached out and grabbed the girl’s arm, prompting a startled and fear-filled yelp from the girl.

“That is against the rules and you are aware of this. If it were not for the fact we were heading to your Harrowing right now…” He trailed off himself as he grabbed the parchment and ring both from the girl’s shaking fingers, tucking them inside his own robes. “These will be confiscated and handed over to the Knight-Commander. Should you prove yourself tonight I will have him decide how to deal with this. And do not lie,” He continued, a cold vehemence seeping into his voice. “You would not be going into your Harrowing now if you weren’t given time allotted to develop your strengths as a mage. Just because you are afraid does not mean you can get away from this.”

He had no way of knowing the girl spoke the truth, and had turned the fire away from her face before he could see her eyes accept total defeat in the darkness.

\--

When he had been shaken loose from his trance of watching the young girl, he found that every single pair of eyes in the Chamber lay upon him. The templars looked at him expectantly, and the Grand-Enchanter pleadingly, although that look was shared between both Cullen and the Knight-Commander.

Cullen swallowed, tearing his eyes away from the desperate elf. He was disturbed to find that his hand was already resting upon the hilt of his sword, and had been since Malachi had given the order.

But then he stilled.

He felt the weight of the ring in his robes distinctively, right where he had tucked it in his breast alongside he scrap of paper the girl has scrawled what would perhaps be her final thoughts and wishes upon. He suddenly felt sick as a thought occurred to him—an apprentice has no earthly idea when the door of their quarters will be knocked on, and standing there, a templar awaiting to escort them to the Chamber. It was the greatest mystery appointed to young, new mages of a Circle. And when Cullen had shown up at the door of this particular girl, she hadn’t rustled around in belongings or slid anything into her pockets—she must have kept these two things tucked away, hidden, in the depths of her robes and belt every day in anticipation of this event.

Had to, because even Cullen himself hadn’t known the time or date the Harrowing was to take place, the only tidbit of information he received in advanced was that his hand would be the one to deliver the final blow should things go horribly wrong, should whichever charge chosen fall prey to whatever temptations lay beyond, seduced by the whispers of a demon until they changed, morphed, all but congealed to form the mass of a newborn abomination, twisting and turning until it broke its own flesh and merged with evil in finality.

Which was not something that was happening right now.

Yes, it appeared the young mage was having trouble navigating the land of the beyond, her whole body a sheen with sweat where bare skin showed and trembling from head to toe. And yes, they had been in the Chamber for well over an hour, an unusually long time for one to be in the Fade and not produce some sort of result, whether good or bad.

But surely her life was worth more than an hour, at best? Surely they could allow her that?

Perhaps Malachi sensed the doubt blooming within Cullen first, perhaps was utilizing his templar intuition to be able to predict Cullen’s objection, because before the young man could even open his mouth to voice his opinion, he was slapped across the face by a gauntlet-endowed hand, hard. Cullen barely had time to even feel the skin of his upper lip split open before he was being shouted at, a hand on his back pushing him closer to the body in the center of the room.

“You take orders, from me, Cullen—you obey me, and by doing so serve this Order as per the oath you took. And I say that it. Is. Time.”

Cullen hadn’t hesitated then, unsheathing his sword from its scabbard and running the girl right through the middle in one fluid motion, feeling the girl’s blood spray him across his face, peppering it in morbid, hot kisses.

And Malachi had smiled as Orsino cried.

\---

Sitting in the Knight-Commander’s office now, having only just scrubbed the remnants of fresh blood from his face, Cullen couldn’t help but to feel the weight of the paper and the ring in his breast as though it were a ton of bricks, as if it was the entire Gallows he concealed instead of the last wishes of a young mage.

“I don’t wish to see that look on your face ever again.”

“Yes, Knight-Commander.” Cullen stayed shock-still in his seat, using every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep his voice steady, calm, and to also keep eye contact with the older man. It was no secret the Commander of the Gallows was intense, daily inspiring fear in the hearts of all Circle inhabitants, including the templars. He was large, and tall, and strong, with a shock of graying hair. He wore his beard shorn short against his skin, showing the hard angles of a tight-clenched jaw and a large, deep scar that traveled from the left side of his chin and traversed all the way up to his right eyebrow, crossing his nose on its way. Nobody yet knew how he had received such a grievous scar, and no one dared ask—but it only added to the intimidation he gave off in airs, as if anything could possibly help it. Without breaking eye contact, Cullen noticed from his peripheral that the man hadn’t washed himself yet, the tips of his gauntleted fingers still stained with the blood from the blow he had dealt Cullen.

“I thought that whatever sympathy you once managed to harbor within yourself was blighted away when you watched all of your brothers and sisters of the Order be ripped apart, one by one.”

Despite his attempt at appearances, Cullen flinched as if he had just been struck by the man again. He broke the eye-contact he had been trying to hard to maintain then, in favor of scrunching them shut tightly instead, before the images could flood his mind.

But it was too late.

Arterial blood sprayed from the decimated throat of the templar, a sick gurgle bubbling from the place words should have formed. Cullen watched, teary-eyed, as the light left the man’s eyes and he dropped to the ground with a heavy, unnatural thud, his head almost completely separated from the rest of his body. There were hands on his face, even if he couldn’t see them, holding his head steady, forcing him to drink in the scene of horror before him. Invisible chains held back his arms, wrapped around his bare torso, even his neck, rendering him completely unable to move. As this body fell the hands on his face turned his neck sharply so he could watch the next murder, the next slaughter, and Cullen wished so badly it would simply snap the vertebra in his neck, wished for nothing more than to feel his own bones crunch and crack until he was gone from this body.

That would have been much too kind, however.

Cullen gasped now as hand—a real one—grabbed his chin and forced his gaze upwards. It was almost all he could do to suppress a whimper as Malachi’s hand tightened, leaning so his face was only inches from Cullen’s.

“Make it so I don’t have to remind you again.”

Cullen was blissfully unaware of the water that stung his eyes, threatened to fall as Malachi’s thumb suddenly reached up to skim along the line of Cullen’s upper lip, enciting a small wince as it brushed over the new wound it found there.

“You’re destined for great things, Cullen,” Malachi said as he withdrew his hand, although very, very slowly. “You know you were brought here because you know first-hand what these leeches are capable of when afforded too much freedoms. Political, personal, it doesn’t matter.” He narrowed his eyes and leaned back into his leather chair. “They are not people, at least not like you or me. Is one person, like you or me, capable of the large-scale carnage you witnessed?”

Cullen slowly shook his head, tongue feeling like a lump of dead wood in his mouth as he said, “No, Ser. I… don’t know what came over me in the Chamber. I never should have defied you, even for a moment, I—“

“Silence.” Malachi held up the hand still donning Cullen’s blood. “As long as I have made point here, I see no reason to dwell on the matter. A would-be abomination, or blood mage, is dead. Somewhere in the chokedamp, a rat carrying disease was just squashed under a beggar’s boot. It makes no difference. You’ve done your order a service, just as the beggar has his gutters.”

Cullen’s feeling of relief would have sickened him if it wasn’t so strong, so encompassing. Malachi was not angered with him afterall. Before he even registered what he was doing, he pulled the parchment and the ring from his robes, handing them over to the Knight-Commander and explaining the circumstances under which he had come by them. Malachi unsheathed the letter and read it exactly once before he chucked it in the roaring fire behind him, the flames curling around the edges of the white paper with a hungry intensity. The ring, however, he tucked in a compartment of his drawer with no offer of explanation.

They both knew he was entitled to giving none.

He delved into another drawer until he opened his hand to Cullen, whose heartbeat immediately began to thud harder, faster at the sight of the small blue vial cradled inside of the palm.

“I’m told you’re rather sensitive to lyrium,” the older man said, as he pushed the vial into the other’s hand. “I am aware you’re not due for your next dose until well into tomorrow, but I want you to take this, here and now. You have performed admirably tonight, Cullen.”

He barely managed to get out the last of his words before Cullen had unstoppered the vial and poured the contents down his throat like a man desperate. Immediately, the sharp pinpricks he felt where his face had been sprayed with blood subsided, the fire that had been alighting his nerves calming to cool bubbles beneath the surface. All at once Cullen’s body relaxed, the horrific images dancing about his head blurring until he could no longer see them at all. A contented sigh escaped his lips, little more than a moan, as he leaned back in his seat, knees spreading slightly and his head tilting back, baring his throat to the room.

It made him completely unaware of the predatory smile pasted on his Knight-Commander’s face, of the gleam that swam behind his eyes—one of a puppet master whose finally, painstakingly lined all the strings up just right.

“I feel that I’m going to like you very, very much, Cullen.”


	2. Untethered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Samson nurtures, comforts, and realizes there's more going on than he thought.

Samson hadn’t slept.

He told himself it was nothing but foolishness on his part. In all honesty, the absence of his golden-haired bunkmate should have all but guaranteed him a full night’s rest in of itself; but now, it only allowed him to lay still in his cot for what had been hours now, staring up at the wall with nothing but his thoughts and the sound of his own breathing to keep him company. He remembered a time before the boy’s arrival that he had appreciated his privacy, had all but basked in the solitude awarded him at the end of the day. 

Now he only wondered. Again, foolishness.

The boy was as naive and desperate for approval as a puppy, that much had been clear from day one.

But, it had also been obvious there was something more dwelling behind the deep brown eyes of the new boy, more haunting him than had first met the eye--that had been obvious from night one.

It had began a routine among them almost immediately, one that had started at the first sound of a shaking, terrified voice, and Samson had awoken to find that those noises were coming from him, from Cullen, and that he was crying beneath closed eyelids. 

That had been that, and now here Samson was, waiting.

There was at least no secrecy as to Cullen’s sudden absence. Besides night patrol duty, which tended to be reserved for the templars who had managed to fall out of good graces by doing something minute, there was really only ever one reason a templar didn’t return to his barracks at the end of a long day. Having been part of the Order himself for several years now, Samson knew there was little to look forward to at the end of the day like one’s cot, as unglamorous and unforgiving as it sometimes was. As small as a thing it may have been, it was a constant, and therefore a comfort. At least, for most.

The thought of as to where Cullen more than likely was caused the corners of his lips down to form a frown. He hadn’t yet heard of a templar being chosen to assist in a Harrowing so soon after arriving to one’s base; he supposed it wasn’t strictly unheard of, but when he paired that with how he had seen Cullen, following the Knight-Commander around unbiddingly, it made him feel a bit uneasy.

He heard Cullen coming way before the boy actually came lumbering in the room with uncharacteristic clumsiness. He was enshrouded in the darkness of the room, the beam of moonlight that poured through their small, shared window not quite reaching his form. Samson immediately sat upright, pulling his legs over the side of the bed, watching as Cullen almost seemed to stagger into the room. Samson immediately flung a hand out, grabbing and steadying the young man with a strong grip. 

But it was that small step that moved him into the source of light, and Samson stilled as if smacked.

There was blood plastered in the young templar’s hair, turning it a ruddy brown in some places where it should have been golden instead. There were also spots adorning his robes and armor, which he was clawing at, discarding the pieces almost desperately in an effort to be bare, or at least rid of the regalia for the time being.

More disturbing than those minor details were the one’s of Cullen’s face. His brown eyes were absolutely hazy, glazed over, gaze locked on Samson but somehow looking through him simultaneously. 

Even worse than that was the blood upon Cullen’s mouth, still freshly wet in places, having just began to coagulate from a rather new seam that had been ripped into the flesh of the boy’s upper lip. There was even dried blood on his bottom lip and chin, where it had undoubtedly dripped down when it occurred. Finally, worse than that was the fact that those lips were stretched into a smile.

Samson stared blankly, numbly, speechless for a moment before he dropped Cullen’s arm in favor for grabbing his shoulders instead and pushing him, firmly but not without care, to sit on the mattress nearest to him. The sudden feeling of being moved was at least enough to knock the smile from his face. 

“Andraste’s ass, Cullen,” Samson swore openly, as he moved about the room to rummage through the few and meager cabinets and drawers afforded their room. He left them all open in his hurry anyways, gathering a small bowl of water and a few rags that were at least clean, if not a bit holey.

By the time he returned to Cullen’s side, the younger man had shorn himself free of the last of his templar uniform, wearing only his short under trousers. Despite his desperation to rid himself of the clothing, he had still managed to fold the robes and set them on the bed, the brilliant, blazing sword emblem up.

Now, Cullen was laid out on the mattress, laughing to himself quietly. It must have been an inside joke because Samson was not smiling.

He sat close beside him, dipping one of the rags into the bowl of water and bringing it first to his wounded lip. That, at least, seemed to break Cullen out of his stupor for a moment. He flinched, hard, his hand suddenly reaching out with lightning speed to grab Samson’s wrist. He raised his eyes, looking at the older man as though he had just noticed he was there. Samson watched the recognition take root, but there was something else there too, behind the blue curtain.

He was absolutely terrified.

Carefully, Samson put his free hand on the side of Cullen’s neck to steady him, perhaps help ease his relaxation along, and held firm. Early on he had found that a firm voice and an even firmer touch is what Cullen Rutherford responded best to, in the dead of night, when the dreams seemed to devour another little piece of his soul.

Slowly, Cullen softened his hold on the older man, until his fingers were loose enough that Samson could pull his wrist the rest of the way free. He leaned back a little, still grasping his neck, to really assess him now that the initial shock of seeing him bloodied and high in the middle of the night had worn off.

Of course, he smelled of blood and lyrium, and while the blood could have at least made somewhat made sense, the lyrium did not. This was because it was absolute fact and common knowledge that the templars of the Gallows received exactly one dose of the stuff per day, and that Cullen had already received his, hours previous in fact. Another thing Samson had learned early on was that the boy seemed to feel the substance differently than he, perhaps differently than any other templar he had known. He supposed he could chalk it up to a lack of tolerance, having only taken his vows perhaps a year ago. Still, that was usually the period of time it took, if not before, that the smaller doses began not to prove mediocre, the blue sounding only as a hushed whisper compared to the lush symphony it should have been, and a larger dose was requested.

“Samson.” The small whisper pulled him from his train of thought, and Samson nodded. “Yeah, kid, it’s just me.”

Cullen blinked a couple times, then sighed. He leaned his head towards the large had that cupped his neck, and even Samson wasn’t completely sure if he was aware he was doing it, practically nuzzling into the older man’s hand.

At the sound of his name escaping from behind bloody lips, something had tugged inside of his chest and he had ignored it by returning to his task of cleaning Cullen’s wound. It was open, and angry, and also very clean and streamlined in its cut. He knew it wasn’t all too uncommon for Harrowings to go south very quickly when a mage found he or she simply couldn’t overcome the demon in their path, when a lack of willpower proved fatal. But he wound he was adorned with didn’t seem the type that an abomination’s jagged claws would leave in its wake. Still, Samson wasn’t about to pry, was only willing to pick up the pieces of whatever was left of him now.

As Samson reached out to him with a fresh strip of cloth, Cullen flinched again, as if Samson had been preparing to strike. 

It made him frown again.

Cullen eventually acquiesced to the older man’s aid, having placed a hand instead on the man’s shoulder as if to brace himself slightly, or perhaps he had just simply wanted to touch the man as he tended to him wordlessly. 

Both of them were now bare, save for the short trousers both wore as night clothes. Samson didn’t react to the boy’s touch, simply continued to carefully wipe away blood, both fresh and dried, from his lip. Once he had managed to clean it to at least his own satisfaction, he wet a fresh cloth and removed most of the blood from Cullen’s hair as well, careful not to pull on the curls as he did. 

He made to pull his hand away completely when he was finished, but Cullen suddenly lifted his hand again, only this time he placed it on top of where Samson’s rested on his neck, in a firm, absolute, almost desperate way.

Samson froze.

“Stay. Please.” 

Samson blinked,and then nodded, slowly. He wasn’t sure if there was a person alive that would have said no to him, now, the way he was. “Yeah, alrigh’, kid. But only ‘cause you asked me so nice-like.” He glanced now at the boy’s mouth, at the split in it. Because all the residual blood had been wiped clean from it, it was apparent just how deep the cut was. It would definitely scar, at any rate, and he wasn’t even sure it didn’t require some sort of stitching.

If Cullen heard him, he made no indication, as he had already begun to lower himself ino the mattress, pulling the older man down with him.   
This wasn’t too unusual, in of itself.

This had happened before, several times, in fact. They never started their night out sharing the same bed, but it was more times than not that, by the time dawn began to break, Samson awoke to find Cullen still laying asleep beside him, his torso always bared, the sunlight beginning to gleam through their window painting him in rich hues of golds and yellows. Perhaps their routine wasn’t exactly conventional, but Samson had decided he didn’t mind it.

This, though, was different. Firstly, obviously, due to the fact he had sauntered in, wounded and hazed from lyrium, probably only a couple precious hours before it was time for them to begin their day all over again. Secondly, he hadn’t been pushed into Samon’s cot by nightmares; rather, he had simply lay with Samson as if it was the normal thing to do, as if there was anything normal about an obliviously, frustratingly beautiful young templar who thrashed and cried while asleep and sometimes shook too badly to even shave himself come morning time, who insisted on being in his bed.

As if there was anything normal about the terror in his eyes, on any given night. Perhaps it was a good thing he had found himself an extra dose, after all.  
Heightened was Cullen Rutherford when he was high. It showed now, in the way his skin was lined with goosebumps, how his eyes fluttered and his lips formed the shapes of words that never found a voice.

He was a beautiful fucking disaster.

\---

Samson had kept a close eye on Cullen before that night weeks ago, when he had stumbled into their shared room bleeding and blissed almost out of his mind, but now he kept something that could be considered close to a vigilant watch instead. It wasn’t hard to do, even despite the fact they retired to the same space each night. Even if they hadn’t, Samson was half-convinced he could keep track on the boy’s day-to-day activities through word of mouth alone. The new boy may not have been aware, but he was proving to be quite the popular subject among some of his comrades, and Samson had caught small tidbits here and there, simply by walking through the courtyard or sitting in the local tavern when he was off-duty, always suddenly paying less attention to his own conversation to listen.

Most times, it wasn’t things of much substance. Sometimes, he caught snippets regarding the fate of the Circle the templar had been transferred from; other times the topic was a bit more transparent and shallow in nature, men and women both making comments in regards to Cullen’s more obvious features. Not surprising. He mainly stopped listening when the conversation turned to how much someone wanted to see what lay beneath Cullen’s templar robes.

What did pique his interest is when he heard the Knight-Commander’s name in conjunction with Cullen’s. It was even a conversation he had been actively made a part of.

He was currently seated on a stone bench in the Gallows courtyard, moving an oiled cloth over the rough edge of his sword. It had suffered a knick during a skirmish in Low-Town, stemming from a concerned, anonymous report involving a crate of contraband lyrium and a very poor excuse for a smuggler. Upon arriving, it had been immediately evident there was no lyrium, and the one smuggler had actually proved to be several mercenaries, who were actually slavers, rambling about a Tevinter Magister’s stolen property. 

Samson spat. 

The trouble never ended in Kirkwall.

He noticed from his peripheral as another templar entered the area, apparently having chosen to take his downtime in the courtyard as well. It was as friendly and inviting a place as any other in the Gallows.

Samson heard the footsteps approach him and glanced up. The man was perhaps a bit older than Samson himself, and he knew him as Rexham. He thought him a good man, if nothing else. He had learned pieces of background information from the man, always unprompted, through casual conversation or in attempts to pass the time when they were put on patrol together. He had been born and raised in the Anderfels, having been transferred to the Gallows after having spent most of his templar career in the Hossberg Circle. He had joined the order as a newly-orphaned seven year old, but he had told Samson himself that he’d led the life of an orphan beggar for at least a year before that before the templar missionaries had finally accepted him, whether for pity or something else. Despite his humble beginnings, Rexham had well proved himself in the years to come, having earned himself the title of Knight-Vigilant of the Gallows.

Another thing Samson knew about the man was that the lyrium was soon to take him.

It was the little things now, the way the man forgot the name of a place or a person here or there in conversation--however far and few between the occurrences may have been, and as to that the man himself could only really know. Sometimes, it was just the look hanging in his eyes, like he hadn’t recognized Samson for one, short second.

Soon the things wouldn’t be so little, and the occurrences not so far-and-few between.

Samson worried what that meant for a man like Rexham.

Perhaps it wasn’t his place to, but he cared for his brothers and sisters of the Order. Somebody has to--it was them, after all, who sacrificed everything, who eventually even gave their sanities by the end of it all. 

They were also the ones the Chantry discarded like broken toys when they could no longer man their posts without wandering off, could no longer hold a sword steady due to hands that trembled violently.

When they could no longer remember who they were, let alone anybody else.

Samson straightened up and nodded at the man amicably when he stopped in front of him. “Knight-Vigilant Rexham,” he offered in greeting, before returning to the task of smoothing the metal of his sword.

“The Knight-Commander has seemed to have taken a liking to that new recruit,” the other man began. He was thinner than Samson remembered him being just six months ago, his skin stretched tight across his face. His cheekbones were gaunt, too, though thankfully his wiry,sandy-colored beard that had gone white in places masked most of it. He didn’t sound as though he were gossipping to pass the time, sounding only genuinely curious and perhaps even a little concerned. “He seems… jumpy,” he pressed, turning his head to assess their surroundings. “I guess you couldn’t blame him, herd Kinloch was a blood bath at best. Still, can’t imagine why Malachi would have him following about so as he does.”

Samson’s eyebrows furrowed, but he nodded along sagely, continuing his work on his blade. The sharpest edges of the knick had finally began to dull down, so he could take it to be reforged later. When he realized Rexham was patiently awaiting an answer, he shrugged his shoulders a bit. “I guess I don’t know much more than you do about it,” he said, and Rexham folded his arms across his chest, glancing about the courtyard again. They were alone, shadowed by the single large tree that had managed to grow from a crack in the cement of the courtyard.

“You’re his bunkmate,” Rexham continued, stepping in a bit closer, under the shade provided by the leaves that billowed softly in the breeze. The leaves were of the bright green hue that heralded the spring, though it served as the only bit of evidence of the season in the otherwise concrete prison of the Gallows, besides physical temperature.

He sometimes wondered if the tree served as the only way to tell the time of the year for the mages confined to the Circle.  
“Samson?”

The templar in question glanced up, unaware he had halted his ministrations of tending to his sword in favor of staring at the tree. He picked up where he left off, both on his sword and in conversation.

“Your guess is still good as mine. We don’t talk much, and when we do, I don’t really think it my place to question a man and poke around in his thoughts.” He said it without any heat, but his point was made clear. 

Rexham nodded slowly, eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah. I get it.” He leaned in a bit then, and Samson stopped again to look at him. “Perhaps maybe mention to him it may be best to err on the side of caution. I’ve been stationed here for some time and I’m not the only one to notice Malachi’s changed. And I know I don’t need to tell you, either.” He straightened, then, straightening his back before he made to stroll off with a polite goodbye, disappearing beyond the stone scaffolding of the arched walkways.

Samson didn’t notice in time to tell the other templar that he had forgotten his own weapon, the scabbard on his belt hanging uselessly on his side, didn’t notice until he had already disappeared completely.

Troubled times indeed.


End file.
